Will you lock them in your box, mother, and if anything happens to me, will you sure — sure burn them?” She laid them on the table at her mother’s elbow. “You promise, mothah?”

“Yas, Cass, yas.”

“What’s in that bundle, mothah?”

With trembling fingers the widow opened her parcel and displayed the silver teapot, from which the spout had been melted to be moulded into silver bullets.

“Thar,” she said, holding it out by the handle, “hit’s yourn. Farwell, he done that one day whilst I war gone, an’ the last bullet war the one Frale used when he nigh killed your man. No, I reckon you nevah did see hit before, fer I’ve kept hit hid good. I knowed ther were somethin’